


The Muse (or The State of Being Unclean)

by midnightshow



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:22:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightshow/pseuds/midnightshow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He was her muse, and she spent hours manipulating clay into shapes that could never truly match the perfect plane of his hip or the delicate ridges of his spine."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Muse (or The State of Being Unclean)

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I need to explain this.
> 
> I may have lost sight of my prompt a tiny bit, but I love how this turned out. This piece ended up being a commentary on love and loss. Sometimes, even when two people are perfect for each other, they don't end up together. Sometimes the universe plots and schemes to keep them apart. Sometimes it's a lot more simplistic than that.
> 
> This is just a snapshot. There is a lot more that happened with this couple before this piece, and a lot more that will continue to happen. As depressing as this may seem, there is still hope for them; I'm just not the one to write about it.

Months before they finally collided, she could have sculpted his body from memory. Every muscle, every bone, every fine line that graced his face from years of smiling at women that weren’t her. She knew it all.

He was her muse, and she spent hours manipulating clay into shapes that could never truly match the perfect plane of his hip or the delicate ridges of his spine. He would lie across her couch and laugh as she created cold duplicates of him, all the while silently wishing she could capture the way his eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks when he smiled. However, clay was never about the minute details for her. Her sculptures were always about the big picture, and her love for him was a galaxy; the biggest picture she knew.

So she continued to sculpt him and tried not to cry when he would slip his shirt back on at the end of the day and return home to the flat he shared with his girlfriend.

On the days he would stop by long enough to allow her to work, when her house was once again empty and only his scent lingered she would warily slink towards the bathroom. She would reach for the shower faucet and turn the water on hot, stripping off layer after layer of clay caked clothing as the small room filled with steam. She always dreaded stepping under the spray. The hot water would quickly wash every remaining bit of clay from her skin, but she did not want to be clean. The clay felt like marks of his existence, proof that somewhere in the world there was a man that could lay himself bare to her and that instead of destroying, she was capable of creating and building.

She would always eventually gather her strength and step under the warm cascades, clay slowly melting down her body. Sometimes in her weakest moments, her fingers would follow the clay’s path, caressing her body before finally landing in between her legs. She would rest her back against the cold tiles of the shower wall and circle her clit languidly, eyes pressed shut. Her fingers would dip in an out of her warm core, and she would drive herself closer and closer to the edge, his juvenile smirk and soft brown hair floating and dancing slightly behind her eyelids. She would shudder and come gasping his name, like a half drowned man gasps for breath. _How appropriate_ , she would think, _since I’ve done nothing but drown in my love for him since the first time I heard his laugh._

And then one day he stumbled into her house with a tear stained face and a broken heart, rather than with the laugh and the smirk to which she had grown accustom. She held him while he cried, and his tears of grief salted her skin. That night when she stepped into the shower she realized that for the first time she truly was washing away a part of him.

Weeks later when the sound of the doorbell jarred her from slumber, she brushed her curls out of her eyes and made her way through the house. She opened the door and in a flurry of movement his lips were crashing against hers and his tongue was licking and questing.

(She later would admit to herself that she chose to ignore the sharp sting of alcohol in his mouth, because even liquor seems appealing to a woman dying of thirst).

She took him by the hand and led him to her bedroom, her mouth and hands worshipping every ounce of skin previously only admired by her eyes. He was so much better than any sculpture she could ever create, and to finally have full access to her muse made her head spin. So, she poured every ounce of love in to her kisses, mumbling hope and promises against his skin. He mumbled incoherent words back, gripping her hips so tightly she would later appear as a garden in bloom. When his cock finally, blissfully slipped inside of her he hissed in pleasure, one hand snaking from her hip to tangle in her hair as his mouth slanted frantically against hers. Every thrust of his hips she met made her heart soar and as his orgasm approached and his fingertips searched for her clit she exploded on top of him, muscles clenching and unclenching rhythmically and his name falling from her lips. He groaned and pulled out of her, fist pumping over himself before spilling his cum over her toned stomach like water on parched earth.

That night he held her as they fell asleep, his gangly arms fitting her body perfectly between them.

She would be lying if she said she was surprised to wake up alone. A note rested on her nightstand _(I'll call to talk about this in a few days. I do love you, I just need to think.)_ and his scent permeated every thread of her cotton sheets. Reluctantly, she pulled herself out of bed and padded towards the bathroom. As she showered and washed the remainder of his cum off of her body, she briefly wondered if this was what love was supposed to feel like.

 Like for once she was glad to be clean.

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't kill me.
> 
> Also, this was written for the Mattex Fic Kinkathon on tumblr. The prompt was: 1. AU: Alex is a sculptress Matt a photographer. (Art/Photography)


End file.
